Another bunch of big hunts

We’re coming to that time of year when everyone should spare a thought for the animals.

With the holidays approaching, the roads will soon be jammed with people rushing to their destinations. Many of you will be too busy to think about which animals you’re going to eat and how you intend cooking them. Should you boil, bake, braai, grill, steam or fry? There are no easy answers.

Meanwhile, a group met at a Polokwane resort last week to think deeply about animals. You might not have read much about it. That’s because journalists were thin on the ground at the 14th African Wildlife Consultative Conference. And not, as you might think, because there was no open bar. They simply weren’t allowed in.

The conference, organised by our very own department of environmental affairs, is the creation of something called Safari Club International, an American outfit made up of hunters. Their main mission is to safeguard the freedom to hunt. They are like the National Rifle Association except they demand the right to shoot bears in the arms or wherever the hell they wish. They are also very proud of their anti-poaching stance. They would be, though. Too much poaching and there’d be nothing left for their own members to kill.

Their headquarters are in Tucson, Arizona, a proudly jingoistic state full of heavily armed rednecks and wife-beaters. In other words, the perfect base for Safari Club International.

So what we’re doing, essentially, is putting the welfare of our wildlife in the hands of hunters. A senior SCI member even helped the department moderate the sessions. This is a bit like the head of a paedophile ring offering child care facilities at his office.

SCI, incidentally, was founded by the bravest man on four wheels. At great personal risk to himself, CJ McElroy spent many years killing thousands of animals around the world, often at distances of only two or three hundred metres.

But it’s not just animals SCI is interested in. They also care about people. For instance, a splinter group called Sportsmen Against Hunger distributes the meat from their kills to food banks through the network of SCI chapters.

“Oh, man. Armadillo again? We had armadillo yesterday.”

“Shut up and eat your meat. You goddamn Vietnam vets are spoilt rotten.”

“Yeah, rotten like this …”

“BANG!”

“Hey, man. You killed Kenny.”

Then there’s the Sensory Safari programme that allows sight-impaired people to get a “visual” perspective of what animals are like by feeling their skins, skulls, horns and pretty much anything with a head big enough to be cut off and stuck on a wall. At some point, they are going to get turned on by all that fondling and will want to go out and kill something of their own. Blind hunters. Now that’s my idea of sport.

There’s also the Disabled Hunter programme where cripples get to kill stuff. And why not? Just because you’re missing a leg or arm or eye after someone shot you in Afghanistan or the local supermarket doesn’t mean you can’t do the same to something else. I bet even Steven Hawking would sign up if he could shoot a wildebeest with a twitch of his eye.

But wait. It gets better. The SafariWish programme is designed to give children with life-threatening illnesses a chance to go hunting. Because what kid dying of leukemia wouldn’t want to blow an antelope’s brains out before he died?

As far as I can make out there are no special hunting programmes for black, lesbian dwarves. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time, though.

When your government organises a wildlife conference and invites hunters but excludes the media, environmentalists, conservationists and non-governmental organisations, you start to sense something might not be quite right.

Oh, well. There’s so much of not-quite-right in this country that it’s just going to have to get in the queue of stuff we really should do something about. Well, not us, obviously. But someone needs to do something about whatever. I’ll get another beer.

KILLER: Ben Trovato bagged himself a fine trophy at the recent Safari Club International meeting for hunters.

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11 thoughts on “Another bunch of big hunts”

Ddse RR a few feyyyw weeks and t Last weekend I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse- sized tazer. The effects of the tazer were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety….?? WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I’d get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right? There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul)while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and then thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and tazer in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; and a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference (loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries); pretty cute really, and thinking to myself, ‘no possible way!’ What happened next is almost beyond description, but I’ll do my best … I’m sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side so as to say, ‘Don’t do it stupid,’ reasoning that a one second burst from such a tiny lil ole thing couldn’t hurt all that bad. I decided to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and … HOLY MOTHER OF GOD .. . WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . . WHAT THE ….!!! I’m pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs! The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room. Note: If you ever feel compelled to ‘mug’ yourself with a tazer, one note of caution: there is NO such thing as a one second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor! A three second burst would be considered conservative! A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling. Apparently I had crapped in my shorts, but was too numb to know for sure, and my sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head, which I believe came from my hair. I’m still looking for my testicles and I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return! P.s… My wife can’t stop laughing about my experience, loved the gift and now regularly threatens me with it! If you think education is difficult, try being stupid !!! ONLY A MAN WOULD ATTEMPT THIS… Like Comment Share Judy Lynn Mccathie Pittam an[truncated by WhatsApp] he first time to R next zsxfk e

Ben-
Safari Club International is puzzled why no one likes them. They are self centered narcissists. They are American capitalists.
Everything they do is PR tested pro-hunting propaganda- including the voodoo science that they buy to advance their sport killing agenda. Remember- it’s “first for hunters” at SCI.
Matthew Scully from the National Review- wrote a book called “Dominion”- and, he explores the mentality of sporthunters.
A quote-
“Safari Club practices a form of socially conscious sadism. It’s ordered libertinism at Safari Club- like teaching cannibals to use a table napkin and not take the last portion.”
This was a press release from SCI after the Cecil death in Zimbabwe.https://firstforhunters.wordpress.com/2015/09/08/washington-report-cecil-aftermath/
They know that sport hunting is unpopular, so, as the press release states, they will use their influence and resources to bribe corrupt unstable governments, as well as know nothing politicians- who are willing and able to sell out natural resources that belong to ALL the citizens of a State or country.
SLEAZY.
They are aligned with the NRA in the US, where they employ the slippery slope argument to ensure ANY and ALL animal welfare legislation is blocked.
They are canned hunters- no ethics or decency- they welcome any and all wildlife trophies killed in canned hunts into their record books.

Maybe these guys are actually behind the decimation of the rhino – lots of bucks behind those slaughter expeditions – do we really think the poor okes hunting on foot are any match for helicopters and high powered weaponry – those guys are not going to give up that patch of profitable turf and are probably already doing what Ricky suggests. But what a brilliant distraction to suggest they are sooooo anti poaching. Lots of killers and liars are the smiling uncles next door. Jane

w.r.t. your trophy pic – I keep thinking of “atrophy” – is it Lenin? What – too many lies eventually sound like the truth?
Remember – your devoted readership is not always that quick on the uptake; me for one.
A bit like the French who kind of wake up and decide that they will bomb the shit out of Syria. Who/what are they bombing: ideas or territory?

Let murderers from jails also hunt poachers. Two kinds of the same type of non-people killing a third type of the same ar****h**s. Keep them on leashes, though, and even the fat cops will get some exercise.